


And I'm So Ready to Wake Up Now

by antonomasia09



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, Canon Compliant If You Consider Shiro's Amnesia, Canon-Typical Violence, Captivity, Champion Shiro (Voltron), Gen, Highly Unpleasant and Painful Medical Examination, Hurt Shiro (Voltron), Prisoner Shiro (Voltron), Shiro (Voltron)'s Missing Year, Shiro (Voltron)-centric, Voltron Lion to Paladin Psychic Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-01 04:12:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15134846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antonomasia09/pseuds/antonomasia09
Summary: While being held prisoner on Sendak's ship, Shiro can sense the Red Lion. This isn't necessarily a good thing.





	And I'm So Ready to Wake Up Now

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this tumblr post](https://antonomasia09.tumblr.com/post/175460461516/do-you-know-of-any-good-theories-for-why-the-galra).

Shiro starts feeling a mysterious pull a few days into his captivity on the Galra ship. He doesn’t think much of it - it’s just another discomfort like his scrapes and bruises and achingly empty belly. Whatever is tugging at his mind doesn’t have the malevolent taint of the magic the Druids use on him, scanning and probing and ripping him apart, but it does feel alien, and that scares him. For the sake of his sanity, he does his best to ignore it.

Sometimes, though, Shiro will fall asleep in his cell curled up in the furthest corner from the door, and wake to find himself sprawled along the opposite wall, echoes of his name being called by an impossibly deep voice still ringing in his ears. His fingers are scratched and bloody, as if he was trying to dig through the wall in his sleep using only his bare hands. It’s concerning because he never used to sleepwalk, but then, he never used to participate in fights to the death on a regular basis. He’d be more surprised if he wasn’t having nightmares.

At least, he assumes that they are nightmares. The only other thing he can remember when he wakes up is a feeling that he needs to be somewhere else, that it’s absolutely vital that he get to whoever is calling to him. The dreams leave him feeling restless and distracted, too on-edge to tap out the count of the guard rotations.

Shiro wonders if Matt and Commander Holt can feel the pull too. He wishes he’d gotten a chance to ask them before they all got separated. He wishes for a lot of things.

***

It’s still a few hours before Shiro’s next scheduled match (he’s heard rumor that the Emperor himself will be watching this one) when two pairs of mechanical feet marching ever-so-slightly out of sync come to a halt outside his cell. Shiro tenses, getting to his feet, trying to swallow down the sick feeling rising in his stomach. They can’t be taking him to the Druids, not now. Those sessions take days to recover from, and if the upcoming fight is meant to be for Zarkon’s entertainment, Shiro’s opponent is sure to be ridiculously overpowered. He’ll need to be at his best to survive it.

Of course, they don’t care about the dread locking Shiro’s muscles tight. The sentries cuff him roughly and march him to the labs, where they strap him to a table, ignoring the way his breath is coming in tiny panicked gasps. They then retreat to the corners of the room, leaving just a single Druid to examine him. She doesn’t wear the masks that the other Druids do, but instead covers her head with a hood that reveals nothing more than a sharp chin, purple with blood-red marks. Shiro thinks he recognizes her; Haggar, Zarkon’s witch. He’s seen her standing behind the Emperor in the propaganda videos they play in the arena, and he’s heard tales of her cruelty from prisoners and guards alike.

She takes her time examining him, feeling her way down his arm muscles and familiarizing herself with the shape of his skull. Her touch burns, but he doesn’t think it leaves a mark. “Such intriguing quintessence,” she murmurs as she presses down hard near his unprotected eyes.

Shiro needs to calm himself down, needs a distraction from the gross invasion of his body. The tugging sensation in his head is still there, strong as ever, and he latches onto it in desperation. Better to go crazy than to lie here and feel her hands on him. 

He still doesn’t know where it’s coming from, but he has figured out that it’s in a fixed direction that he can use to orient himself, like a compass pointing north. He closes his eyes and sinks into it, trying to follow the trail in his mind to the source.

It’s useless. All he gets is a pounding headache and a wave of helpless fury washing over him that feels stronger than the one already coursing through his veins. He opens his eyes again to see Haggar still standing over him, lips frowning in thought.

“Such a small, weak creature for such a mighty title,” she muses, bending his right wrist as far as she can, just on the cusp of snapping bone. Shiro chokes on a scream.

“I could make you so much stronger,” she continues, letting go, and Shiro gasps with relief. “I could give you gifts that would ensure your victory in every match.”

She doesn’t really want an answer, he thinks, but the rage is still flowing though him, and he’s furious at all the Galra that think they own him. “I won’t fight for you,” he says.

“My Champion,” she says, and Shiro shudders. Somehow, the title seems infinitely worse coming from her mouth. “You won’t have any choice.”

***

Two hours later, the Galra hand Shiro a spear and open a gate to release three gigantic beasts simultaneously, all teeth and claws and razor-sharp spines. They’re fast and deadly, and probably very hungry, but not smart. Shiro wins, in spite of the lingering pain in his head and his wrist. He looks around the stands afterwards, and sure enough, Zarkon is there with Haggar beside him. She smiles at him, and he snarls back. He didn’t do it for her.

***

They come for him again the next day. Four sentries and two living guards, and Shiro wonders what they’re going to do to him that they think he’ll fight hard enough to require so much security. He’s shaking a little as they hustle him out of his cell and down the dark and endless hallways.

The route they’re taking isn’t one that he’s familiar with. Most of Shiro’s time has been spent in his cell or the arena or the Druids’ lab, but now they’re leading him upwards, towards the massive hangar bays, if scattered memories of his abduction are to be trusted. He can feel the pull getting stronger, stronger, until he can’t feel anything else.

Shiro’s walking quicker now, fast enough that the sentries have to grab his arms to slow him down. He barely notices. They’re not leading him anymore; he knows exactly where to go.

Shiro turns one final corner into the last hangar bay, and stops dead. 

There’s a metal lion. Huge and red, and surrounded by some kind of force field, and he knows that this is what’s been tugging at him for months. Its presence is overwhelming, almost enough to make him miss the fact that Haggar is hunched in the corner, wrapped in shadow.

The sentries remove his cuffs and shove him forwards, and he stumbles before catching himself and taking a few reverent steps closer to the lion. This close, he can feel heat coming off of it, chasing away the ever-present chill of space.

He reaches out carefully with his left hand, not sure what will happen when he touches the barrier. Will it shock him? Will it feel like a solid wall? Will his hand pass right through?

The answer is none of those things. The moment his fingers make contact with the force field, a flood of images assaults his mind. This lion flying in formation with four others. All of them transforming, combining, metal joints locking into place, to create a creature greater than the sum of its parts. The lion’s roar rings in his ears, and under it he hears the name, “Voltron.”

When his vision clears, Shiro is on his knees in front of the lion, sagging in the grip of two sentries, and Haggar is snarling with rage. The force field is still up.

In the blink of an eye she’s in front of him, wrenching his head up. Her claws dig into his chin hard enough to draw blood, but he knows better than to try to get away. He kneels there and pants and fixes his eyes on the lion as her dark energy swirls around him.

It doesn’t matter. He’s not the pilot. There may be nothing he can do to stop Haggar from turning him into a weapon for the Galra, but at least he won’t play a part in corrupting this lion.

With a cry of rage, she backhands him across the face hard enough that everything grows fuzzy, and he can barely feel the sentries dragging him away, barely even feels the frisson of fear when she orders him to be taken back to her lab.

The last thing he hears before his vision grows dark is her voice calling after him. “One way or another, Champion, you will serve me.”


End file.
